Of Cinema and Sticky Notes
by thisbluepeony
Summary: AU: Remus Lupin is the office bore. Sirius Black is the office sweetheart. They fancy each other, on a purely aesthetic level.
1. Chapter 1

Remus Lupin wakes at 5:47am to the sound of police dogs in the garden. His cat Jonathan gives a half-hearted hiss from the end of the bed, and a torch shines through the flimsy net curtains of the bedroom window. Five minutes later, speaking despondently into their walkie talkies, the huddle of policemen crunch back out again. A helicopter sounds overhead. Remus falls back to sleep.

Sunlight wakes him again at seven and with the vigour of Nosferatu he hauls himself up in bed and wishes he could have died in his sleep. It's a sentiment he only ever really possesses between seven o'clock and seven thirty, but it's been a fairly constant one for the past six years or so.

He pats fat Jonathan awake to get him to shift off his numb feet, then climbs out of bed and pads into the bathroom, switches the shower on, waits four seconds for water to begin chugging noisily out the top like a smoker's cough, and pulls off his nightly uniform of too-big tartan pyjama bottoms and faded Pink Floyd t-shirt. He wears them because it seems like the sort of thing trendy young bachelors do and because, at twenty-seven, he can no longer seriously sport such a shirt in public.

Then again, it's so stuffy and sweltering in his flat at night he usually ends up shucking all of his clothes off by one in the morning and sleeping naked instead. It's not like there's anybody about to shock. No one but Jonathan, and Remus is becoming concerned he's getting so fat his eyelids are going to soon be permanently closed anyway.

_Must take him to the vet_ he reminds himself, before closing the door and stepping under the shower head. His curse reverberates about the tiled walls when it scalds him, and again when someone in the flat above puts a tap on and the water lashes down like ice.

"Another raid," says Mrs Pitcher, his landlady, rifling through the post. Not just her own either. She has at least three tenants' unopened envelopes clutched between four skeletal fingers and one gremlin thumb. She's an old woman - at least one hundred and eighty seven - and she always speaks out the side of her mouth like a Walt Disney crook.

"Yes, it woke me up," says Remus.

"Woke the whole bloody street up. And I bet they didn't catch him."

"Never do, do they?"

"Theft, I expect," she sniffs. "Mr Townsend mentioned to me only last week how his terracotta flowerpots have been going missing - "

"Actually, Mrs Pitcher, d'you mind if I just collect my post? I'm in a bit of a hurry is all. Tuesday morning, you know the drill!"

She huffs with ancient breath and at a glacial pace shifts a generous three inches to let him pass. Remus smiles and sticks an arm around her to paw in his pigeon box, takes the bills, BookPeople catalogue and Pizza King flyer he finds there and stuffs them into his bag.

"Goodbye, Mrs Pitcher. Have a nice day!"

She waves a hand, not answering.

* * *

Remus' journey, made twice daily, takes the form of one brisk eleven and a half minute walk, three tube station stops, a seven minute bus journey through several grimy south London streets, and another five minute walk or three minute jog depending on how late he happens to be.

Today's the walk, which means it could actually turn out to be quite a good day. Odd really, given that it's a Tuesday and Tuesdays are - Remus has always maintained - shit. Staff progress meeting, late lunch hour and, given that it's still the start of the week, one can always be sure there'll be a gargantuan stack of work matching the height of the office divider he's boxed in, waiting for him on the desk.

He clocks in just on time right alongside Peter, who's balancing his slip with a cream cheese bagel. Most of it's clinging to his flashing snowman tie. He's been wearing it for two weeks now, and the red flashes are starting to jar and blink. If you press the carrot nose it sings a demonic version of Frosty the Snowman. The height of Christmas cheer.

"'Lo, Remus," says Peter, spraying crumbs.

"Morning, Pete."

"Cutting it fine again."

"I know."

"Late night?"

"Something like that."

"Ah, I feel you, mate."

_Do you, Peter? Do you 'feel' me?_

Peter's that one bloke in the office who still likes to pretend he's London's resident Jack the Lad. He's utterly obsessed with everyone else's business and isn't happy till he's had his daily fix of who-shagged-who at the staff social, who smoked weed in the office toilets last week, who propositioned the boss for a raise on their pitiful pay, etcetera etcetera.

Remus can rarely indulge him, and it only seems to make Peter plague him more. It doesn't help that their flimsy cubicles stand side by side, so when Remus goes to sit down at his, Peter follows.

His cubicle is three walls of metal-framed green felt. Someone's draped stringy red tinsel over the top in a vain attempt at kick-starting Remus' festive spirit. He has a plywood desk, a computer installed with Windows 98 on which you can occasionally get limited internet access and even Solitaire, a phone, a desk tidy with three biros in it, and his very own swivel chair, perfect for when he wants to quickly turn round and stare at the blank white wall two feet behind him.

His closest amenities are the ladies' toilets and a vending machine which sells nothing but Diet Coke and Minute Maid orange juice. On the felt walls he has a picture of Jonathan as a kitten, a staff timetable and an early Christmas card from his ex-boyfriend Mark that he hasn't quite the heart to throw away.

"Are you going to the staff meeting later?"

"Of course I'm going, Peter. Why would I not be going?"

Peter shrugs, picking at his nails. His own cubicle is filled mainly with newspaper clippings that make him snort into his Rustlers southern fried sub of a lunchtime and simple recipes for the lazier bachelor, the pinnacles being "steak and shrimp" and "three minute chocolate cake".

"I dunno. Just making conversation. You're really boring on Tuesdays, do you know that?"

"Sorry, Peter."

Remus fires up his computer and adjusts the photo of Jonathan on the cubicle wall. He clicks the end of a red pen and lies it flat on a large refill pad salvaged from his single drawer, and begins his day's work. And what is this tantalizing work, you may well ask? Well. Remus Lupin helps supply pencils.

* * *

It's not so bad, supplying pencils. They do, after all, need to be supplied. And their company supplies everywhere: schools, hospitals, libraries, other offices. You name it, they supply it. The pencils come in all colours and sizes, a whole plethora of pencils. They even have big catalogues filled with the different types, stowed away in filing cabinets at the back of the office. Pollock & Co., they're called, though Remus has never met Mr Pollock in his life. Or Mr Co.

There are perks. As many free pencils as he wants, reasonable pay, and the work isn't particularly challenging (though he often debates whether this last perk is indeed a perk at all). The office is in a fairly safe area of London, in a fairly modern office block, with a fairly lenient boss and a fairly friendly group of co-workers.

It's a living.

"Pencils are the original all-rounder," his staff team leader, Frank, is telling them later that afternoon. They're all stuffed into the meeting room, dark with the blinds shuttered against the beastly early December weather. "Everyone uses them. Everyone needs them. Come rain or shine, recession or no, people will. Need. Pencils. I want you all to remember that."

Frank is passionate about two things in life: his wife and pencils. He's a nice enough bloke - and nicer still whenever, if ever, he manages to loosen up at the occasional office do - but it's difficult to have a conversation with him that doesn't start with either "my wife Alice" or "the thing about pencils is" or "Alice said that pencils are".

And no one ever listens to him either really, which is a shame because he tries _so_ hard. Even as he speaks now, a group are huddled together on one side of the circle, legs stretched luxuriously from their chairs, chatting to one another openly like the naughty (aka fucking annoying) kids at school.

Hippy Dorcas with her droopy cardigans and weird jewellery, Marlene with legs up to her chin and extensions down to her arse, Caradoc with his big nose and oil-dripping voice, James with his boyish grin and skinny ties, and his best mate Sirius; cool, composed, capable of excessive laughter and around whom everyone seems to constantly be gathered.

Truth be told, Remus has always harboured a bit of a crush on Sirius Black ever since he arrived at Pollock six months ago ago with his shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows and his expensive tie loose around his neck. He is, by all accounts, the office sweetheart. The younger women fancy him, the older women mother him, the blokes all want to go to the pub with him Friday lunchtime, and he leans too far back in his chair and never falls.

But it's purely aesthetic, you know. He's gorgeous, and that's about as far as it goes. Remus has barely ever even spoken a word to him.

* * *

Life has been kind to Sirius Black. There've been many downs but far more ups, and now, at twenty-five, he's in good health, with good looks, a good flat in south London not ten minutes from a fairly good job. Fair enough, it's not the most riveting of work, but he needs it. Hopefully he won't be here forever, and hopefully he'll one day leave on his own terms.

In the meantime, he's surrounded by nice enough people, had found a particularly cherished friend in James Potter, the bloke in his neighbouring cubicle, and he doesn't really have to do much work in return for more than adequate pay.

He isn't perhaps living life in the way he'd initially _intended_, and he hasn't sold a piece of art for two years now, but he's fine. Content. Comfortable.

He's also really fucking_ bored_.

He doesn't hate Pollock & Co. There isn't really anything _to_ hate other than the monotony. But he's beginning to hate himself for succumbing to the nine-to-five, to office life, to being "comfortable". It sounds terribly bohemian and twee, but it's how he feels. He hasn't had a proper shag in almost a year now, let alone a relationship. Some days he doesn't even bother to change out of his work clothes. He finds himself doing terrifying things like buying day-planner calendars and making shopping lists and talking to his goldfish and owning goldfish in the first place.

Three years in art college just to wind up in a modest flat on a quiet lane chatting merrily away to something with a three-second memory span. His father always said college was a waste; Sirius is scared he's beginning to prove him right.

He started looking for ways to try and make his life more exciting almost as soon as he began work at Pollock. He spends quite a bit of time with James, he goes out with his co-workers as much as humanly possible, and he always insists on new and interesting places to eat at lunch time. He tries to paint and go to galleries at the weekends when he isn't too busy (well, tired) and he does his utmost to meet handsome, exciting men as contenders for his next boyfriend, something he feels he's in particularly dire need of.

All of the blokes in the office are straight, or taken, or honestly just a bit ugly, and there's no one he much fancies. Except Remus, the guy who never speaks.

Well, he _does_. He once said "thank you" when Sirius held the door open for him, and "you're welcome" when he held the door open for Sirius. And he came up to him on a morning three months ago to say, "Sirius, Kingsley would like you to fax him the purity stipulations if you're not too busy". Then he'd walked away, and Sirius had faxed Kingsley the purity stipulations and peered at Remus very subtly from behind the wall of his cubicle, smiling to himself.

He fancies Remus, but only on an aesthetic level.

* * *

"Pencils are the original all-rounder," says Frank, in the dingy darkness of the meeting room at one o'clock on Tuesday afternoon. "Everyone uses them. Everyone needs them. Come rain or shine, recession or no, people will. Need. Pencils. I want you all to remember that."

James lets out a low, whistling breath. "William Wallace, eat your heart out," he mutters. Sirius snorts.

Frank shoots them a rather sharp, rather anxious look, like the hopeless kid desperately trying to give a coursework presentation at school.

"However," he continues boldly on, turning away from them again, "there's a whole world of suppliers out there, and we have to give our customers reason to return to us. Times are hard, economically speaking, and there's tough competition. We have to remember to stress our variety, our high ecological standard, our loyalty scheme..."

Sirius easily begins to block him out. He glances, bored, round the rest of the circle, landing first on Peter Pettigrew, stuffing a Miniature Hero Bounty into his mouth, then at Remus beside him. He's hunched up in his chair, staring very intently at a stain on the carpet.

He barely blinks as he nibbled on his lower lip, and then he looks up and catches Sirius staring and blinks once, slowly. His lips quirk up into a weary smile, but he looks away before Sirius can mirror it.

When the meeting ends, Remus is the first out of his seat while the others stroll leisurely behind. Remus always looks _busy_. Perhaps he actually enjoys his job, though Sirius doubts it. It's one of his many fantasised conversation starters - _Do you enjoy your job, Remus? Well, let me give you something else to enjoy_ - which would never in a million years play out.

He watches Remus walk all the way back to his cubicle, and then returns to his own when it becomes clear Remus isn't going to look up again.

"Well that was horrendously painful," says James when Sirius sits down.

"Indeed."

"What's Frank even doing as team leader? He'd better lead a group of - " He pauses to hiccough, indigestion from having to eat his lunch too fast - "a group of toddlers."

James talks about toddlers a lot, given that he owns one. A little one. Harry. Sometimes James brings him into the office and he sits on the floor shredding papers for everyone.

"He can't help being useless," says Sirius, returning to his game of FreeCell, "and it's better than having someone who's, you know, actually serious."

"S'pose. Hey, did you get my e-mail?"

"Which one?"

"The one about bad parenting, with the baby and the Jack Daniels."

"Oh, yeah. Thanks. It was funny."

"Come on, it was hilarious. Oh whatever. Hey, give these to Pettigrew, would you?"

Sirius double clicks an Ace of Hearts, tip of his tongue between his teeth in concentration. "Give your own damn papers to Pettigrew."

Then he remembers where Pettigrew sits, and snatches the papers from James' hand without another word. His chair swivels wildly when he stands up and strides across the room, making his way down the long line of depressing prison cells and stopping at the one where Pettigrew's normally to be found, eating, sleeping or, very occasionally, actually working.

The chair is empty. Beside it, Remus sits staring at his computer screen, cheek resting on his fist, brow furrowed, looking thoroughly confused.

Sirius grins and slinks a little closer.

"Where's Pettigrew?" he asks, and Remus jumps so hard his elbow slipped from the desk entirely with a _whump_. Sirius bites back a laugh. "Sorry, you were really concentrating there, weren't you, mate?"

"Not to worry, but I'm afraid I don't know where he is," says Remus, glancing up. "Sorry."

"That's a shame. Got a present for him." Sirius drops the whole stack of papers on Pettigrew's desk with a smack, rattling several empty Diet Coke cans when they land. "What you up to then?" he asks, sitting himself down in Peter's chair.

"Just dealing with a customer."

"Lucky you. So glad I don't have to actually ever _speak_ to the customers."

"Oh. Right." Remus looks confused again. "Don't you?"

"Well no, I work in finance."

"Oh yeah, course. Sorry, I forgot."

"Well that's because you never speak to me." He means it as a joke, but Remus suddenly looks surprised, and Sirius wants to kick himself. In a quick attempt at salvaging the situation he carries on, "So what are you up to tonight anyway?"

"Oh, I don't know," Remus murmurs. He gives a little huff of laughter, almost to himself. "Feeding my cat and drinking myself to sleep, most likely. With tea, I mean. Over re-runs of Heartbeat."

Sirius laughs.

"The sad part is you think I'm joking," Remus adds.

Just as Sirius opens his mouth to reply with a carefully-crafted quip of his own, Pettigrew comes bounding back down the small carpeted pathway, two packs of Minstrels and a can of Minute Maid in his hand. He looks confused when he sees Sirius, as though he can't quite remember if this really is his own seat or not.

"Just some faxes for you there, mate," says Sirius, standing up. He doesn't want to. He wants to stay here and pick at Remus some more and figure out why he never speaks.

"Oh right, cheers!" Peter bristles, bustling round Sirius to plonk himself down in the seat.

Sirius nods. "Right. See you later, Remus." He smiles and, wonderfully, Remus smiles right back.

"What was making you squawk so much over there?" James asks when Sirius return.s "You sound like a fucking seal when you laugh, you know."

"Remus. He's funny."

"Is he?" James raises his eyebrows with a bored, Tuesday afternoon sigh. "Never knew that."

* * *

"Mr McCarthy... Mr McCarthy... Mr - yes, I realise that, Mr McCarthy, but you see... no. No, of course not. No, I understand, I... but look, we don't actually have any control over - sir, I'm really going to have to ask you to calm down, this is merely..."

Remus wants to say it, really he does. _This is merely an issue over some fucking _pencils_, you insufferable old twat_. But he has to stay polite; it says so in his employee hand booklet.

He's been on the phone to Mr McCarthy for over twenty minutes now. It's past five o'clock; he could, legally, put the phone down. But the polite bastard deep within himself won't allow him to do it, in the same way it won't allow him to stand up to people who push in front of him in the bus queue or turn down Jehovah's Witnesses who come to his door clutching copies of Watchtower, and he lets Mr McCarthy abuse him for a further seven minutes before, finally, the old wank hangs up himself.

Well. It's definitely one of Remus' more successfully-handled complaints.

Free at last, Remus switches off his computer, shrugs his coat on and tosses his empty orange juice can in the bin. He says goodbye to Dorcas, the only person left in the office, then goes out into the hallway and hits the button for the piss-stained lift. Inside, he pulls out his phone to check for messages, though he doesn't really know who he's expecting to send him any. Mark, perhaps? Jonathan?

"Woah, woah, woah," comes a familiar voice, and a hand stops the doors and forces them to move apart again, and Sirius bounds in grinning. "Sorry. Went all the way to the stairs thinking I'd try to be healthy and then thought, you know, fuck it. It's a long way down."

"Definitely know the feeling." Remus does, too. He has a new "teetotal resolution" practically every other week, usually made when either a) drunk; or b) hungover.

"James is trying to get me to go to the _gym_ with him. Can you believe that?"

"God, no. I don't know why anyone would go to the gym by choice."

"Right?" Sirius chuckles. "It's like, you work in an office, you hardly require a six pack."

See, he _says_ that, but judging by the tight work shirts Sirius likes to wear it's obvious he isn't exactly in bad shape himself. At any rate, it isn't as though he tries to _hide_ anything. Even now, his collar and tie are so loose that a rather large portion of skin's on show. _Don't stare, Remus. Do not stare._ Remus imagines wearing his own work shirt so low. He'd probably get done for public indecency.

They seem to be in the lift a bloody long time, and when the doors finally haul themselves open again Sirius finds something to say. Remus is halfway through a cheery goodbye when Sirius goes, "What are you doing on Friday?"

"Friday... morning? Friday afternoon?" Remus pauses. "Friday evening?"

Sirius laughs. "Er, the middle one. Afternoon. We always go out. You never come. You should."

Truthfully, Friday office pub breaks have never much appealed to Remus. It's all too bleak, too depressing, too laddy, even with the constant presence that is Marlene Legs'n'Hair. They all come back tipsy and annoy him all afternoon when he's overworked and overtired and wants nothing more than to crawl into bed but still has four hours to go.

Maybe it would be easier if he was a part of it. But when he'd first arrived at Pollock, he'd been so anxious about the idea of drinking in the day time that he'd refused all the friendly offers, and people had simply stopped bothering to ask. He's the office bore. He knows that. He embraced it. Well, tries to anyway. It's a bit disheartening, to be honest, like being the maudlin kid at school who never has a partner for trips because all he talks about is death. Like, it's his fault that he's left out of things, but it doesn't make him any less aware of it.

Then again, having Caradoc swagger over, clap Remus on the shoulder and say, "Come for a pint, Lupin, you _definitely_ need it, you great queer," is a lot different to having Sirius Black give him a friendly, hopeful smile, saying he _should_ come, but not demanding it.

So Remus bites back an excuse from the catalogue in his head and says, "Yes, yes alright," and this time he finishes his goodbye properly.

When he gets home, Jonathan's thrown up on the living room carpet and the people in the flat above are having noisy sex.


	2. Chapter 2

"With all due respect, Pete," James says from behind his pint, "you're completely wrong."

It's twelve o'clock on a Friday afternoon, and Sirius finds himself sitting in the corner of a pub booth, James beside him, Peter opposite and, next to Peter, Remus. James and Peter are locked in an extremely heated debate - Man Utd vs. Man City - and Remus and Sirius are silent. Sirius likes football. He just isn't stupid enough to talk to James about it.

He makes a couple of _isn't this fucking boring _faces at Remus, makes him smile, but exasperated facial expressions can only achieve so much. He hates that they're diagonal from one another since it means they cant really talk, and the whole point of asking Remus to come here had been so that they could do just that: talk.

"You're a glory fan, Peter," James is insisting. "You are. Isn't he, Sirius?"

"What?"

"A glory fan."

"Sure?"

"No, I'm not!" Peter squawks. "I'm just saying..."

Sirius blocks him out again, stifles a Friday-afternoon yawn and drains his first pint. Well, this is going swimmingly. At this rate, Remus will never want to come to the pub with them again. Excellent!

For fuck's sake.

"Remus," he says suddenly, cutting across the two rabid dogs. "D'you want another?"

Due to his not having said a word, Remus has long since finished his own drink. He nods gratefully, and when James moves to let Sirius past, Remus slips out of his seat too.

"Oh my God,"he mutters as they crossed to the bar. "Help."

"They're _so_ bloody boring, aren't they? Swear to God Potter's only like this on a Friday lunchtime when he's plonked opposite Pettigrew. Anyway, same again? Yeah, can I get a couple of pints of lager, mate? God only knows what they'd be like if they were next to each other in the office."

"Pencils would never get supplied," says Remus, "and then where would we be?"

"In a world of chaos, surely."

Sirius pays, passes Remus his drink and pointedly sits down on a barstool instead of returning to the table. It's nice, seeing Remus up close like this. He's never really noticed the details of his face before; the strange yellowy colour of his eyes or the dusting of freckles across his nose, the slightly raised scar on his left eyebrow. He's terribly pretty. He obviously isn't aware of it either - and if he was, he'd most likely be bothered by it. If Remus has one flaw, that would be it. Some people find self-consciousness endearing and cute; Sirius just finds it a bit exasperating.

"So," he says, setting his glass down, "can I ask you to do something really annoying?"

"What's that?"

"Would you tell me about yourself?"

Normally this request is met with hesitation and sighs, "what do you want to know?" and "I'm not very interesting, to be honest" and "oh, you don't want to know about _me_. Tell me about _you_".

Remus just looks thoughtful for a moment and then says, almost patiently, "I'm twenty-seven. I've got a degree in English Literature which I have put to good use by specialising in the mass mail-out of pencils. Occasionally dip into product returns. I'm verbally abused thrice weekly and my favourite film is probably City Lights."

Sirius laughs, and Remus smiles back.

"And that's all you really need to know."

"All I need to know or all you want to tell me?" says Sirius. He must sound far too flirtatious, because Remus quirks an eyebrow.

"What about you?" he asks Sirius instead of answering.

"Ah. Well. I'm twenty-five, I spent three years at art college trying to justify my reasons for being at art college. One year obtaining a basic level of accounting, which I have now used to help supply the people of Britain with fine-quality pencilage. I avoid talking to customers at all costs, and as for my favourite film... It's a Wonderful Life."

"Really."

"Well, that or Empire Strikes Back."

Remus laughs at this. "Well thank you, Sirius, that was very illuminating. I can't believe I went a whole half a year without knowing any of that."

His voice comes out flat, deadpan, and in a moment of uncharacteristic anxiety Sirius wonders if Remus is making fun of him.

"I know I definitely feel more fulfilled learning you're a fan of Charlie Chaplin," says Sirius. "Although I've never actually seen City Lights."

"I've never seen It's a Wonderful Life."

"You should come over and watch it some time."

"What a kind offer."

"No, honestly, I watch it every Christmas. You're totally welcome to join." _Totally, _totally _welcome to join._

Remus laughs gently, as though Sirius is joking. "Isn't that a bit... sad?"

"What?"

"Two blokes alone in a flat at Christmas, watching Jimmy Stewart films."

"I don't mind if you don't. I'm a pretty sad sort of bloke."

"I somehow doubt that very much."

"No really, I go home at night and I paint watercolours. I mean, come on. I've got pet goldfish and I _talk_ to them. I drink chamomile tea to put me to sleep at night. And I actually _enjoy_ it." Remus starts to laugh; emboldened, Sirius continues: "Literally the highlight of my week is taking my laundry out of the tumble dryer. I can't get any sadder so you shouldn't be surprised by annual viewings of black and white Christmas films on my big fuck-off TV - which, yes, I did buy to a fill a hole in my life where a partner should most likely be."

When Remus stops laughing he looks down into the froth of his pint and says, very softly, "I'm surprised."

"By what?"

"Well, it's just..." Remus hesitates. "I had an idea of how your life might be. Christ, that sounds so creepy."

Sirius doesn't find it creepy at all. He rather likes the idea that Remus has been thinking about him.

"That's alright. I have my ideas of what your life might be like too, pencil supplication and love of 1930's cinema aside." He shrugs. "Wouldn't mind finding out whether or not I'm right."

Remus gives him a strange, confused smile at this. "Sirius, am I... I'm not misread - "

"Right, shall we call it one more and then head on back, maties?" James' voice booms above them. He claps them both on the back, so hard they almost fall into their drinks, then leans between them to order two more pints, one for himself and one for a defeated-looking Peter.

Across James' back, Sirius and Remus share a smile, and later on the way out, as James and Peter go on ahead, Sirius touches Remus very gently on the arm and says, "Tomorrow then. You'll come and watch with me, yeah?"

Remus doesn't even seem to hesitate. "Yeah. Of course."

* * *

Sirius doesn't really know what the hell he's doing. He doesn't know anything about Remus. Doesn't really even know if he's gay. Doesn't know if Remus is even going to consider this a _date_. None of it bothers him; he can't wait to find out.

They make arrangements for Remus to arrive at seven, and Sirius promises to cook for him and successfully makes it sound as though he's a reasonably good chef, which he isn't. At all. He goes to Tesco on Saturday morning and buys frozen paella and decides that he'll only claim he's made it himself if it seems like Remus might believe him.

He buys wine, too. He doesn't know much about wine, so he just picks the one in a carafe that costs the most. Remus might end up hating the film, but if he's drunk it won't really matter.

* * *

Remus agonizes over what to wear. _Agonizes_. His bit of a crush on Sirius Black is no longer purely aesthetic. Remus is actually beginning to _like_ him. He's funny, he's unfairly attractive, he calls barmen "mate" and makes bold propositions like inviting Remus round to watch classic Hollywood Christmas films, as though the two of them have been friends for years.

And now, just when Remus' mind _as well_ as his cock has started to like someone, it has also begun telling him that everything in his plywood wardrobe is crap. Twenty minutes before he's meant to arrive at Sirius' flat, he's stripped to his boxers in his bedroom, alternating between holding up a slim red jumper and a casual white button-up.

"Oh, this is fucking useless!" he shouted into the silence of his bedroom. "Jonathan, I am so sick of this teenage girls bollocks. What am I even doing with my life?"

Jonathan meows ruefully and looks rather ill. Remus suddenly feels bad for leaving him. He really does need to get him that vet appointment. For one wild moment he even considers taking him to Sirius's, wrapped up in a blanket or something, just for company's sake. But that would be crossing Sirius's line of jokey sad and just be plain sad. That would be a great way of making sure Sirius never speaks to him again.

In the end Remus tugs on the jumper and his best jeans, drags a comb through his hair, brushes his teeth at lightning speed and dabs on the aftershave he's barely used since his mum sent it him for Christmas twelve months ago. He grabs his jacket, gives Jonathan a quick pet, checks the cat bowl was still full, and bolts out of the door.

* * *

Sirius' flat smells absolutely heavenly. Sirius's flat _looks_ absolutely heavenly. _Sirius_ looks absolutely heavenly.

"Hey, buddy!" he chirps, gorgeous in his slim black button-down and low slung jeans. "Just go through into the kitchen."

Remus isn't exactly sure which part constituted the kitchen, because the whole main living space is open plan. The floor is a continuous stream of trendy dark wood-effect laminate, and the walls are all smooth and clean cream with thick-framed black and white photographs positioned artistically here and there.

It's likely the flat on a Pollock & Co. wage, is a lot more _faux_ expensive than actually expensive - the black leather sofas fake leather, the dark wood table hollow and so on - but it's lovely all the same. Definitely a cut above Remus' crappy old hovel anyway.

He perches on one of the breakfast bar stools and peers over at what's sizzling in the wok.

"You like seafood, right?" says Sirius, padding across to the oven. "Shit, I probably should have asked."

"It's fine, I do."

"I suppose you could always pick the fish out."

"I _do_."

Sirius looks at him and smiles, giving the wok a shake. "Well, good! D'you want some wine?"

He nods to what looks like a very expensive bottle of wine on the counter top. It comes in its own bloody carafe, for God's sake. Remus pous it out into the two waiting glasses, takes a sip of his own and immediately finds it repulsive, thick and gloopy and dark. Sirius downs half of his in one and pulls a face too.

"Christ, what have I bought? Here, don't drink that. I can tell you don't like it. What do you want instead?"

When they took their food through into the lounge area, it was with plates of paella and cups of tea.

"That really is a fuck off TV," Remus blurts out before he can stop himself. It's massive. _Massive_. Almost too big actually, and a bit ugly.

"Yeah. I'm one of those unfortunate people who splurges when I'm upset or angry and, well..." Sirius motions to the TV uselessly, not finishing.

"What... what were you upset about?"

Sirius looks across at Remus from his side of the couch and says, very seriously, "Getting a job at Pollock."

They both suddenly begin to laugh.

* * *

By nine o'clock, the floor is covered with discarded sofa cushions, plates and cups, and the wok they've eaten the remaining paella straight out of. The credits of It's a Wonderful Life are scrolling down the screen, and Sirius has his legs slung across Remus' lap.

It feels strange and domestic, as though they aren't two men who've shared an office for half a year and yet barely ever spoken to one another before last week. But it's comfortable too. Not quite _natural_ - Remus doesn't know Sirius well enough for that yet - but yes, comfortable. Fine. Easy.

Although he's slightly concerned Sirius has fallen asleep. His eyes are closed, and he hasn't unfolded his arms from across his chest for about half an hour now.

"Sirius?"

"Mm?"

"Film's over."

"Yeah." He's silent for another moment. Then he sniffs and yawns and moves his arms to stretch, his shirt riding up slightly, exposing a slim, dark trail of hair from his belly button down into the waistband of his jeans. "Did you like it?"

"Yeah, it was good. A bit sweet, but nice enough. Comfy there?"

"Very. Haven't had anyone to put my feet up on for ages."

"Glad to be of assistance."

Sirius laughs lazily and finally opens his eyes, blinking at Remus in the darkness of the room.

"What time is it?"

"Just after nine."

"Alright. D'you wanna stay?"

"Stay?"

"There's a spare room."

"No, I'd better get home to my..."

For a moment, Remus is certain he sees something close to panic flick across Sirius' face. "Your...?"

Remus hesitates, a bit embarrassed. "Cat. He's not very well."

Sirius visibly relaxes and smiles again, moving his legs from Remus' lap to let him sit up. "Thanks for coming," he says.

"Thanks for having me. Here, I'll help you wash up."

But Sirius, yawning again, shakes his head and waves a dismissive hand. "Don't worry about it, I'll sort it later. You get home to your cat."

"You make it sound ridiculous."

"Sorry," Sirius grins. "I meant for it to sound cute."

They share another silent look, and for one wild moment Remus thinks they're supposed to kiss. After all, there's no way Sirius is straight after this; that much has already been confirmed. But that doesn't mean Sirius likes him, or desires him, or even wants to see him outside of work again. Which is a bit of a depressing thought really.

In the end, they hug briefly, and Remus shrugs his jacket on and Sirius shows him to the door, dozy and slow. That's about the moment that the bizarreness of the situation hit Remus, and he doesn't know whether to laugh or ask what on earth they've just done.

"So. See you at work on Monday?" says Sirius.

"Yep. Monday."

"Night, Remus."

"Goodnight."

* * *

It turns out Sirius does want to see Remus again outside of work after all. After that evening, one date - and they really do begin to feel like dates - turns into two, then three. Sirius initiates them by leaving sticky notes on Remus' computer, 'On the Waterfront?' and a smiley face on bright yellow and then, a week later, slightly bolder, 'King of Hearts?' and a kiss on pink.

Remus takes each one with a stupid grin, ignores Peter's curious looks and peeks round his cubicle to find Sirius. He's always lounging, talking to James, laughing, never looking, and Remus wonders if he does it on purpose, if he goes out of his way to be irresistibly cool and aloof.

On the second date Sirius shows him some of his art; vast watercolours of rivers and oceans and forests which would never be found in south London, so utterly fragile and beautiful it's difficult to believe someone as brash as Sirius could have painted them. He even admits how much he missed being able to sell his work, having people look at his creations. But then he laughs self-deprecatingly and says, "There you go, that's my less-than-adequate sob story. Everyone has to have one."

On the third date they kiss. Briefly. Rather awkwardly, on Sirius' door step, but well enough to make them both smile, to keep that smile on Remus' face all the way home. It's strange and interesting and exciting to be 'seeing' someone, and it makes going into work that little bit brighter, leaving at night that little bit more difficult.

Their fourth film is at Remus' place. He doesn't mind hosting. It is, after all, only fair. He isn't too bad a cook, and he keeps everything clean and tidy, and Jonathan is a lot friendlier now he's visited the vet and been prescribed freakishly large pills that Remus has to individually cut up and put in his food, the portions of which had been doubled by recommendation.

But his flat is so, well, _shit_. It's in the basement of a Victorian house - it says so on the eaves, 1868 - and having the ground floor means he has to descend the old stone outdoor steps which are icy and lethal in December, and the one lounge window is so low there's barely any light. It certainly isn't open plan. The kitchen is a box. So's the loo. The bedroom is only slightly bigger, and there definitely isn't a spare. It's depressing, if anything, and he's appropriately ashamed of it. Ashamed of what Sirius might think. He finds he's really starting to care what Sirius thinks.

Remus has taken to peering at him, subtly, from behind the cubicle wall at various points in the day. He can just about spot Sirius' desk from his own cubicle, which is about the only perk of being on that side of the office.

He'll see Sirius bent over his desk, cheek resting on his hand, as he scribbles something down on a pad of paper, looking bored. Numbers, it always looks like. Finance. Business. Hard stuff. Clever stuff. And yet his expression always makes it seem as though it's the easiest thing in the world. He'll often swear under his breath - Remus can never hear him but the _fuck_s are always quite obvious - and scribble the whole lot out, chucking his pen aside in a temper.

Remus loves watching him. It sounds so unbelievably creepy, but who's there to notice? Everything Sirius does, he does with such bloody _flair_ - even fucking up accounts. The elegant way he tilts his head back and drinks deeply from his can of Diet Coke, or the way he rocks back in his chair, or mouths numbers under his breath as he works, taps figures into his computer with slender fingers and, Remus' favourite, how he rests his pen between his front teeth and rocks it gently while he concentrates. It somehow manages to be the most absurdly erotic thing Remus has ever witnessed.

This crush is becoming ridiculous.

* * *

"I brought wine," Sirius says when Remus lets him into his flat, "but nice stuff this time. Here. Hey, wow, I like your house."

"Oh, course you do."

"What's that tone for? I do. Love the walls." He drags his fingers against one blindingly yellow wall and gives Remus a bastard smirk. He's definitely taking the piss now.

"We're not allowed to paint," Remus explains. "Believe me, I would. Are you alright with lasagne?"

"Perfect, thanks. Oh, hello! Who's this?"

Remus turns on his way to the kitchen to find that Sirius has been rather warily approached by Jonathan. Sirius crouches down and scratches him very gently under his furry grey chin, then behind his ears, then the dip of his chubby neck, and Jonathan purrs his appreciation.

"That's Jonathan."

"You called your cat _Jonathan_?"

"What's wrong with that? Jonathan's a fine name."

"Yeah, for a respectable lawyer perhaps. Mittens, Snowy, _they're_ cat names."

"Mittens?"

Sirius' voice switches to a deeper, even posher version of himself: "Afternoon, Jonathan. Did you get my fax, Jonathan? Splendid weather we're having, isn't it, Jonathan?"

Jonathan peers back at him, almost as if in understanding. Remus scoffs.

"You're deranged."

They eat cross-legged on the living room floor in front of Let's Fall in Love, terrible and clichéd and weirdly funny, their shoulders brushing, toes touching. Halfway through Sirius' hand creeps across the carpet and brushes Remus' fingers. Remus jumps slightly, startled by the contact. His tongue darts out to wet suddenly dry lips, and then he curls his fingers back over Sirius', and somehow they're holding hands.

Sirius kisses him soon after that. It's the delicious, inevitable consequence of four classic Hollywood cinema movies and a shared bottle of wine, tiny smirks across the space of the office, subtle brushes of arms and hips in the photocopying room, a hundred silly e-mails and three Friday lunchtimes spent in the pub talking rubbish.

Ten minutes later, they've somehow found their way into Remus' bedroom.

* * *

"Oh God, is this - is this okay?" Sirius gasps between kisses. His hands are everywhere - _Remus' _ hands are everywhere; clutching and tugging and trying to undress - and Sirius isn't sure what he'll do if the answer is no.

"Yes, yes," Remus breathes into his mouth, "absolutely. Definitely."

They're on the bed, and he's arching up beneath Sirius, responding to every touch and pull and whisper, beautiful and panting and tasting of sweet white wine.

Sirius all but tears at the buttons on Remus' flimsy shirt, popping one off completely and making muddled promises to replace it as Remus lets out a laugh. Sirius slips the shirt down lightly freckled shoulders, tosses it aside, leans back to pull off his own t-shirt as Remus slips out of his jeans.

When they're both down to only their boxers, their lips meet again in a frenzied kiss. Their hands join, fingers entwining as they began to rock against each other agonizingly. It's sweltering - the heat of the radiators doesn't help. Sirius can actually see tiny beads of sweat in the dip of Remus' collarbone, the hollow of his throat, and as he leans to lick at the salty skin Remus offers up this soft, pliant moan, tangling his fingers in Sirius' hair and _pulling_.

"God, Remus, I want you," Sirius admits. He gives Remus' throat one last lick, feeling his Adam's apple bob beneath his tongue, before travelling further south, catching one nipple lightly between his teeth, giving it a flick with his tongue, pulling forth another of those wonderful shivers.

It's a bit overwhelming actually. Sirius hasn't had sex in months and now, to have Remus - beautiful, quiet Remus from sales - splayed out beneath him, pale chest heaving, pupils lust-blown, Sirius isn't quite sure where to start.

Slowly, he tucks his fingers into the top of Remus' boxers. He looks up at him from beneath his eyelashes, feeling another hard jolt of arousal at the way Remus is looking right back at him, lips parted, eyes glassy. Sirius pulls the boxers down and off, takes hold of Remus' cock, heavy in his hand. It feels silky and hot against his skin, the head pearling with pre-come, and he leans to take the tip slowly into his mouth, sucking lightly as Remus keens beneath him.

When Sirius slides his lips quick and dirty down the whole length Remus groans, loudly, and shoves up with his hips till Sirius almost chokes. He pulls off, just about catching Remus' babbled _fuck, sorry, sorry_ before grinning, wiping his swollen mouth, going back down again.

Lips tight, he breathes hard through his nose as his head bobs up down, throat fluttering around the head of Remus' cock, every desperate encouragement spurring him on. Sirius' fingers move up to sweep over Remus' balls, squeezing tentatively and earning another buck of sharps hips.

"Fuck, Sirius," he whispers. "I'm going to come very soon if you keep that up, so..."

So Sirius doesn't keep it up. He pulls his lips away, his fingers, and crawls back up the bed to kiss Remus very gently on the mouth. He felt speculative hands on his chest, fingers ghosting over his hot skin, before travelling down to the bulge in his boxers. Sirius breaks the kiss to look down at where Remus' hand is palming his cock through the cotton. Then his eyes travel back up, and their gazes meet, and he smiles.

"Remus," he murmurs, "I wanna fuck you."

Remus' answer comes in the form of a hard, bruising kiss which forces Sirius back a little, and with little more than a quick flurry of tugging hands, they're both completely undressed, writhing against each other, their clothes in a heap on the floor.

Sirius presses a long, quick line of kisses along Remus' neck, distracting him as Remus tries to turn and root in the night stand. It takes a little while actually - he seems to have a lot of _junk_ in there - but eventually a small, cold tube of Liquid Silk hits Sirius in the chest, followed by an open box of condoms.

He sets the box aside and pulled Remus forward by his legs so they're resting snugly astride Sirius' hips. Then, with slightly shaking fingers, he uncaps the tube, squeezes a liberal amount into the palm of his hand, and rubs it around his fingers, never missing the hungry look Remus is eyeing him with.

Accommodatingly, Remus bends his knees, sliding his feet up the bed, and the obvious invitation makes Sirius' mouth water. He is _so_ beautiful, stripped bare from his work attire and no longer Remus-from-sales, or Remus-from-the-office, just Remus, pale and gorgeous and suddenly filled with this sexy confidence Sirius had no idea he possessed.

Resting one hand on a sharp hip, he reaches between Remus' legs. Slick fingers gently circle him, leaving a ring of smooth wetness. Carefully, Sirius presses one finger, his forefinger into him, sinking forward slowly. Remus doesn't so much as whisper. He shifts a bit on the second finger, and by the third he's groaning weakly, spreading his legs wider. His cock is heavy and red, glistening against his belly, and a crimson flush has travelled all the way from his crotch up to his chest, on to his neck from there. He looks absolutely wrecked.

And Sirius, his own cock throbbing, works his fingers slowly, mesmerised by the sight, and waits and waits with bated breath for Remus to say it's alright.

When he does, Sirius almost tears the condom in his haste, ripping the packaging with his teeth, rolling it on to his cock, slicking himself with the last of the Silk and lining up and shoving forward with his hips, sinking into Remus with a stuttering moan.

It's hot, and so tight it almost _hurts_. He has to pause a moment to gather himself, to keep from coming too soon because it's honestly been fucking _months_, dammit. But soon Sirius is grabbing Remus' hips and burying himself in a little deeper and leaning forward, draping himself over Remus to press firm, desperate kisses to his lips, then to his neck, before slowly beginning to fuck him.

Their bodies move together in slick tandem with one another. The clutch of Remus' body is so good, _too_ good, so that Sirius finds himself teetering on the edge all to soon, and his muscles all protest with the strain of trying to keep himself from snapping forward too quickly.

But after several sweltering, agonizing minutes, Remus starts moving his hips in wider circles, rolling up into Sirius' slow thrusts, and then he starts to speak, to gasp _faster, faster, please faster_ and Sirius can let himself go, and he starts to drive in and out of Remus' body with starry-eyed dizziness, making noises he'd be ashamed of if he could properly register that they're coming from him.

Filthy, desperate moans spill effortlessly from Remus' own lips, breathless commands and curses and _groans_. He's rocking up against Sirius, meeting every frantic thrust, so clearly close to coming that when Sirius pulls him up, Remus' moan at having his cock caught between the hardness of their stomachs is almost a shout.

And when Sirius lies him back down on the bed to wrap a hand around his cock, gathering pre-come with his thumb and slicking it down, it takes only three firm strokes before Remus' eyes are rolling into the back of his head and he's mewling and coming, hard, in thick, hot spurts, all over Sirius' hand.

Remus' body clenches as the intensity of his release shoots through him, and the sensation hits Sirius in a heartbeat, and he's suddenly dangerously close to coming himself, his thrusts turning desperate and clumsy.

And Remus, sated and drowsy, wraps his long legs tighter around Sirius's waist, kissed him hard on the lips, pants into his mouth, _come on, come on, let go, give it to me_ and Sirius surges forward with a shout Remus will no doubt tease him for later and comes hard into the tightness of his body, almost sobbing out his release, feeling himself fall apart.


	3. Chapter 3

They're together after that. It spreads round the office like wildfire and Remus is surprised to find he doesn't mind at all. Well, the cold looks from the office women who are convinced he's turned Sirius against them he could do without, but he rather enjoys the way Peter probes and pesters and questions, not to mention the frustrated grunts he gives when Remus gives him nothing in return but a mysterious smile.

He bins the Christmas card from Mark, replaces it with a photograph of Sirius in bed, pulling a hideous face. He pins up a drawing Sirius has done too, folding it up into an aeroplane and flinging it across the room to cheer Remus up on a rainy Monday morning. It's of the two of them. He's given Remus freakishly large eyes with love hearts in them and exaggerated his own physique substantially, and the first time Remus saw it he'd snorted so loudly everyone in the office had turned to look.

Sirius will send him daft e-mails like, cringey-cutesy teasing little things, 'you look soooooo good from here' and 'tell pettigrew to keep his ratty hands off you' and 'hey handsome meet me in the photocopying room in five minutes ps can you send me this month's mailout figures pls and thank youuuu xx'.

He still leaves sticky notes on Remus' computer too, arranging their nights in or nights out or, more frequently as the weeks push on, days in and days out. The office closes up for Christmas, they go to the staff party together and spend an hour in the locked supply closet, surrounded by an ominous amount of pencils, and when Christmas day itself comes they spend that together too, since Sirius says he no longer sees his family and Remus' arthritic parents spend the winters in Spain.

Remus has never been so blissfully, peacefully happy. Even his flat doesn't seem to hold much of its previous perpetual gloom anymore, and Jonathan is better again, and he looks foward to going work, and he doesn't even mind when he gets called a mindless numbskull by a customer on the phone.

And then February comes, and they've been together for almost two months, and everything starts to go wrong.

* * *

"I want you all to understand that this is not the fault of anyone in this branch," Kingsley, the owner of the south London office, says to them one freezing Thursday morning. He stands before them all in the dank meeting room, wearing a concentrated frown. "It was not preventable by any member of staff. This is largely a result of the current economic situation, but unfortunately it will affect some of you in this room. This branch will have to be moved to, and combined with, the branch in Hackney, and as I'm sure most of you have already gathered, this will result in... some redundancies."

Most of them _have_ already gathered, and yet a shocked gasp still goes up round the room like wildfire, a frustrated buzz of panic erupting soon after. Remus looks across the room at Sirius, but he doesn't meet his eyes. He's staring at the floor, brow furrowed, arms set stubbornly in the folded position they'd taken up at the very start of the meeting. Beside him, James seems to be going out of his mind.

"I've got a _family_," Remus can hear him saying.

"This will not apply to all of you," Kingsley goes on, trying to raise his voice above the incessant din, "and I shall personally see to it that it applies to as few of you as possible. But it's a reality we have to acknowledge, and something we have to be prepared for. I'm sorry, guys. I really am sorry."

* * *

The following week, on Wednesday morning, Remus is called into Kingsley's office. He smiles up at Frank the messenger, mutters, "Righto," and backs his chair out of his cubicle. He tries not to let his fear show, but people have been called in and out of the office for the past three days, and it looks and feels a little like walking the green mile.

On a normal day when Remus is summoned to Kingsley's office, Sirius likes to sing under his breath as he passes: "_Someone's in trouble_." This time he glances up, offers Remus an encouraging smile, and gently brushes his hand.

"Ah, Remus," Kingsley smiles when he walks in, closing the door behind him. "Have a seat. Can I get you anything? Tea? Coffee? I've got some chai myself."

"I'm fine, thank you," says Remus, wondering why redundancy was beginning to feel like a tea party.

He sits himself down in the plush chair before Kingsley's desk. The office is huge, square and modern, with expensive Roman blinds on the internal windows and a long sleek desk and state of the art computer. He trusts Kingsley isn't going to be let go.

"Don't look so worried," Kingsley says kindly, sitting down opposite him. "I'm not going to keep you in wait - I've actually got some fantastic news for you."

Remus looks up at this.

Kingsley takes a deep, leisurely breath and leant back in his chair, hands tucked across his stomach. "Remus, you've been with us for five years and your track record is, to put it simply, nothing short of outstanding."

"Thank you, sir."

"Now, I know you probably didn't intend to stay in pencil supplying forever. I mean, who did?" Kingsley gestures to himself self-deprecatingly and gives a tired smile, as though they're equals. "But if you work your way up, you _can_ make a career out of this. You can make very decent money, live a _very_ comfortable life indeed, and all in, I'd say, less than only ten years."

_Less than only ten years_.

"Brilliant," Remus mumbles.

Kingsley smiles again. "Head Office recognises your endeavours and, well... Remus, they'd like to offer you the position of Assistant Manager when we transfer to the north London branch."

* * *

"Come in, Sirius, sit down. Would you like anything? Tea? Coffee?"

Sirius refuses impatiently, sits down in the cushy chair Kingsley offers him and leans forward, elbows on his knees, fingers clasped almost as if in prayer.

"Right, well. I'm not going to keep you waiting." Kingsley clears his throat and drummed his fingers on the arms of his chair. "Sirius, you've been with us eight months and your track record is truly outstanding."

"Thank you," says Sirius, brightening considerably.

"But you see, Sirius, while you're good at what you do... Head Office has decided that you're simply not experienced enough to match the endeavours of the Accounts team at the north London branch."

Silence rings out into the office. Sirius swallows thickly, the lump in his throat a dull ache.

"I'm very sorry, Sirius - "

"Wait - "

"- But we're going to have to let you go."

* * *

"What am I going to do?" Sirius mumbles into Remus' neck. He was sitting, rather awkwardly, in Remus' lap in a corner of the otherwise empty lunch room. He'd come in, theatrically cheerful, dropped down on to Remus, feigning _relief _that he'd been let go from such a fucking dead-end job. Then he'd squeezed his eyes shut tight and wound his arms tight round Remus' neck.

"What am I going to do?"

Remus rubs soothing circles on his back, glad for the blinds on the internal windows. "Everything will be fine," he whispers. "You'll find another job - "

"What if I don't?"

"You will."

"But what if I _don't_?"

Remus pulls Sirius back gently to look him in the eye. "You _will_. How... how was your redundancy package?"

"Generous," Sirius admits, "but it won't keep."

"But you've enough?"

"For now." He hesitates. "I have to leave at the end of the month. I don't know what I'll do. It was hard enough forcing myself to apply for _this_ job. I'm scared I'll just give up again."

"Then I'll help you."

"You're moving," says Sirius, his tone almost accusatory, as though Remus wasn't supposed to accept the job.

"Then you can come with me."

"Don't be stupid, Remus. _I'm_ the artist, remember?" He slides off Remus' lap into the seat beside him, and buries his head in his hands.

A woman comes rushing in, some young thing from accounts, tears streaming down her face. Seeing the two of them she grunts in frustration and storms out again. It seems everyone's looking to escape today.

"You said you hated having a job like this," Remus says desperately, when nothing else seems appropriate.

"I still need one!"

"Well then... then I'm sorry, I don't know what to say. I want to help you, I just need time to... think about it."

"What's there to think about?" Sirius demands. "I thought _you_ were the guy with all the answers. After all, _you're_ the one who got the promotion and the pay rise. _You're_ the one moving to north London while the rest of us stay here and _rot_."

Remus stares, bewildered. He'd never seen Sirius like this before. He's seen him angry and frustrated, of course, over incompetent co-workers and fucked-up accounts. But he's never raised his voice to Remus, not once.

"Don't use that against me, Sirius, it's not fair."

"Not fair?" Sirius splutters. "I'll tell you what's not fair. Living alone and trying to support yourself and being told to leave by Head Office even though _they're_ the ones who've fucked up the company and _I'm_ the one with the supposedly outstanding track record. I don't deserve this!"

"I know, and I'm _sorry_, but I don't know what to say that can make it better. I need time to think. I'm a little overwhelmed myself, you know."

"Yeah, I suppose you must be. Promotion. Pay rise. Transfer to an upmarket area. Must be _so_ overwhelming."

He storms out then, and Remus leans back in his chair and kicks hard at the Minute Maid vending machine.

* * *

James is safe, and Peter too. Dorcas seems fine, and Marlene, and of course Kingsley. Frank has been offered a transfer to the Hackney branch but a demotion at the same time, since the only other option is upwards to Assistant Manager, and that position's already been offered to Remus. He can't look Frank in the eye for days.

He certainly can't look at Sirius. That hurts too, but for entirely different reasons. Remus can't stand the thought that they've broken up, though to be honest he's unsure if they actually have. He still holds on to a faint glimmer of hope that one day he might come into work and find one of those ridiculous sticky notes on his computer screen.

As the transfer to Hackney grows ever closer, Remus had to begin making preparations. He speaks to Mrs Pitcher about ending his tenancy, takes the train to Hackney one Saturday to speak to his new employers, and cleared his little flat of all the useless junk he'd accumulated over the past five years. He also splashed out on a new collar for Jonathan with some hi-tech device in it that it made easy to find him if he ran away, so scared was Remus of Jonathan hating the lack of familiarity in Hackney and trying to get back to their south London home.

One particularly freezing, particularly rainy evening when Remus is busy separating his books into a Keep pile and a Charity pile, his doorbell buzzes. He look up in surprise. Hardly anyone ever calls round, especially not in this weather. Dropping his creased paperback of David Copperfield, he goes out into the hall, undoes the many very necessary locks and bolts on the door and pulls it open.

Sirius stands, shivering and soaked, on the doorstep, dark hair plastered to his head. He has no coat or umbrella, just his leather jacket pulled tight around him. Remus wastes no time hauling him inside, closing the door and bothering to slide only the bolt across so that he can quickly turn and look at Sirius properly.

"Sirius? What on earth are you doing?"

"It's _raining_."

"Yes, I can see that. Look, go through into the living room."

He turns on the old 1970's gas fire and sits Sirius down on the couch where he drips all over the velveteen cushion covers. Fetching a clean towel from the bathroom, he makes to press it to Sirius' sopping head, remembers they aren't really together anymore and passes it to him instead.

"Thanks," Sirius mutters. He drags it viciously back and forth across his head till the normally elegant black hair is wild and soft and damp. "I'm sorry for dropping in like this. I should have phoned, I didn't know you were busy."

"I'm not, I'm just..." Remus gestures to the piles of paperbacks. "Re-organising my books." It might still be a bit insensitive to talk about moving. He changes the subject. "Would you like some tea?"

"No, thanks."

"Well you're freezing so I'm getting you some anyway."

When he sets the hot mugs down on the coffee table, Sirius reached out and wrapped his pale fingers around one of them. Neither of them speak at first.

Then, in a mumble, Sirius says, "I miss you. And I'm sorry. And I hate myself for what I said to you."

"You were upset."

"I should have been happy for you. I _am_ happy for you, and proud of you too. And I'm also fucking jealous as sin but I swear to God I'm trying to work on it." Sirius finally looks at him. His eyes are sad. "I don't want to lose you when you go to Hackney."

Remus, without really thinking about it, says, "You won't."

"Yeah, but it's not going to be the same, is it? Not seeing you every day." Sirius seems to think for a moment. "And most nights. I'll miss you like hell."

"I'll miss you too." Remus realises the truth of this only when he says it, and he repeats himself. "I'll miss you too."

"I just kind of wanted to say goodbye properly. Since I'm leaving in a week, and then you are not long after that. I didn't want us to be on bad terms - "

"Wait. Goodbye? What do you mean, goodbye?"

"Well I just thought maybe now rather than when we're surrounded by people."

"Sirius, I'm going to the other side of London, not leaving the _country_. I don't want us to break up, I - I don't want to say goodbye."

Sirius adjusts his fingers around his mug. He looks uncomfortable, not only in his expression but physically too. His clothes have begun to stick to him, and when he speaks he has to swipe at a few beads of rainwater still rolling down the side of his face.

"I didn't think you'd want me distracting you, or holding you back or something," he says.

Remus stares at him. "Sirius, have you gone mad?"

"What d'you mean by that?"

"How could you distract me?"

Sirius shrugs.

"Don't you realise how happy you make me?" Remus says quietly. "You were the one who made me stop waking up and wishing I'd done anything but. I actually looked forward to starting the day, and it was only because of you. You think because I'm moving across the city I'm just going to throw that in the bloody bin? Because you might _distract_ me? What does that even _mean_?"

"I... I dunno. It made sense in my head."

Remus almost laughs with relief. "Look, Sirius, I don't know what the answer is but it's - it's not saying goodbye. It's definitely not that." He pauses. "Not unless you want to, that is."

"I don't," Sirius says quickly.

Sitting there, Remus looks first into Sirius' eyes, then down to his long fingers clutching his tea, and then finally at Jonathan who's begun to curl himself happily around Sirius' legs. Remus smiles.

"Come with me," he says. "Come and live with me."

"What?"

"When I move, I want you to come with me. You can look for a job there. There are better prospects in the north, plenty more choice and opportunity. Or you can paint and sell. That's what you always wanted to do, isn't?"

Sirius is quiet for a long time. "I can't," he says eventually.

"Why not?"

"We've only been together a few months."

"So?"

"So I'd drive you up the wall."

Remus laughs. "I don't care."

"And what about when my redundancy money runs out? And my savings? And what if I still don't have a job? How could I afford to pay?"

Remus thinks about it, and the longer he does the more deflated he can see Sirius becoming.

"You know I can't just say getting a job will be easy, because life's not like that," Remus begins carefully, "but what's keeping you here that you wouldn't be able to find there? Any sane person would hire you in a heartbeat. You've got qualifications, you've got experience, you've got... well, you know, you're _you_, and... and on the off chance you don't get a job and your money runs out, then I'm getting a pay rise. I already comfortably afford a one-bed flat as it is. I'll just be able to... more than comfortably afford a one-bed flat."

"One-bed, eh?"

"Unless you'd rather have your own room, of course."

Sirius chuckles softly at that. He reaches out to stroke his thumb over the back of Remus' hand, Jonathan still purring at his feet.

"Are you just trying to make me feel better with sentimental bollocks, or do you actually mean that?"

Remus thinks about it, and finds that he does. He really does.

"I really do."

And Sirius' tiny smile blossoms into something big and spring-like, and he lunges forward and takes hold of Remus' face in both hands and kisses him over and over.

"I really am going to drive you up the wall," he promises when they part for air.

As though to prove his point, Sirius lifts a hand and flicks at Remus' ear, very gently. Remus catches his hand, pulls it down, entwining their fingers. He presses one more kiss to Sirius' lips, grinning.

"Do your worst."


End file.
